It began with a scream.
Then came the smoke.
I was hauling in the morning nets when I saw it—dark smoke rising near the docks. At first, I figured someone's stove had caught fire. Accidents happen. But then came the shouting.
Then the clash of steel.
Then another scream.
By the time I reached the shoreline, chaos had already taken root.
A ship was anchored just offshore—low, lean, and mean-looking. Its sails were black, smeared with neon orange paint in the shape of a grinning toad. Across the hull, someone had scrawled in messy, angry red letters: "TOAD CRUSH CREW."
A rowboat had already hit the sand, and pirates spilled from it—ten, maybe more. They looked like they'd clawed their way out of a dumpster—ragged clothes, chipped weapons, wild eyes. Not a scrap of discipline among them.
But they were loud. Fast. Armed.
And right in the middle of it all, stomping down the beach like he owned it, came their captain.
Gold-toed boots. A feathered coat two sizes too big. Wild lavender hair puffed up like cotton candy. And a mouth full of gold teeth that caught the sunlight like a threat.
"Listen up, you hay-chewing nobodies!" he bellowed, throwing his arms wide. "I am Captain Gero the Golden Toad! Pirate of the North Current! Plunderer of five villages! The scourge of Goat Head Reef! And today..." He spread his arms even wider. "I'm your new landlord!"
He laughed—loud and forced. His crew joined in, though I'd bet half of them didn't even get the joke.
One of the villagers tried to bolt.
A pistol cracked.
The shot missed, but the message didn't.
"First one to hide loses a toe!" Gero sang, spinning in place like a showman. "Now then—who wants to donate all their belongings to my retirement fund?"
My blood turned cold.
These guys weren't monsters. They didn't have the aura of warlords or elites.
But they had weapons. Numbers. Confidence.
And worst of all—nobody here was a fighter.
I scanned the area.
Kaoru was on the ground, dazed.
Hana had retreated into the bakery doorway, clutching a rolling pin like it could save her.
The kids were hiding behind barrels.
Old Man Jiro hadn't moved from the dock.
His jaw was set. One hand rested on the shaft of a rusted harpoon.
"We're fishermen, not warriors," he muttered, eyes locked on the pirates. "Damn cowards pick villages like this for a reason."
I nodded grimly.
Then I saw one of them—the pirate—shove a girl into a stack of crates. He laughed. She cried out.
That did it.
I ran.
The fight wasn't clean. Wasn't glorious.
It was raw instinct.
Desperation in motion.
I shoulder-charged the bastard off the girl, barely dodging a crowbar swing meant for my head. I didn't think. I just moved.
Footwork. Breath. Timing.
Zoro, training with tree trunks.
Sanji, relentless kicks.
Luffy's direct, simple punches.
I didn't have a Devil Fruit.
No swords.
Just six months of sweat and repetition.
And it was enough.
I dodged low, grabbed a broken broom handle, and slammed it into the pirate's ribs. He dropped, gasping.
Then another came. And another.
I twisted between them—landing hits, blocking what I could, taking the rest. My arms burned. My side throbbed.
But I didn't stop.
And slowly—nearly too late—the villagers began to move.
Kaoru scrambled up and tackled a pirate from behind.
Hana screamed and smashed one in the face with her rolling pin.
Even the old men joined in—sunburned, wiry fishermen swinging oars like war clubs.
The tide turned.
Until he joined the fight.
Captain Gero stepped down from the crate he'd been using as a throne, both oversized machetes gleaming at his sides.
"Oh-ho-ho! So the guppies bite back, huh?" he sneered, flashing his gold teeth. "Let's see how long that lasts!"
He charged.
I barely blocked the first swing with my makeshift staff. The impact sent a jolt through my arms.
He wasn't just a clown. He had real power.
But he was showy. Predictable.
I weaved under a horizontal slash and jabbed at his gut. He spun away, caught my staff mid-swing, and yanked.
I let it go—stepped in—and kicked him hard in the chest.
He stumbled backward, crashing into a crate with a wheeze.
"You filthy weed-haired shitty brat!" he roared, eyes wild. "I'll mount your head on my rudder!"
"Try it," I spat, grabbing a short-handled hoe from the sand.
We clashed again.
No one else joined in. They just watched.
And for once, they saw a pirate being pushed back.
It wasn't elegant.
But it mattered.
Gero swung wide. I ducked, twisted, slammed the hoe into his shin.
He screamed—then took a punch to the jaw.
He crumpled.
Out cold.
Face down in the sand, limbs tangled like a squashed bug.
The crew froze.
Then broke and ran.
By sunset, the flames were out. The docks still smoked, but we were alive. No one had died.
I sat on the beach, pressing a cold cloth to my aching knuckles.
Jiro limped over and dropped a bottle beside me.
"Cheap sake," he said. "You earned it."
I didn't answer right away. Just looked out at the village—people bandaging wounds, laughing nervously, holding each other.
"They were small-time," I muttered. "What happens when someone stronger comes?"
Jiro sat down beside me.
"Then we hope you're stronger, too."
To be continued…